


Tales Untold

by mautadite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fluff, Future Fic, Post-War, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Up in the peaceful north, as the snow starts to thaw and the land turns to spring, Arya and Myrcella play a game of pretend.</p><p>(Myrcella is the beautiful Northern princess, and Arya is the savage but enthralling wildling girl who comes over the Wall, and slips through Myrcella's window to ravish and steal her.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tales Untold

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the ASOIAF kink meme. Prompt: 'Future!fic. Arya tells her stories about life and dangers in the North. Myrcella is fascinated and horrified... but mostly fascinated. Soon, she's begging Arya to play a game where they pretend that Myrcella is the beautiful Northern princess, and Arya is the savage but enthralling wildling girl who comes over the Wall, and slips through Myrcella's window to ravish and steal her.'
> 
> Mild spoilers for **AFFC**. Spent too long worrying about prompt-unrelated things, but I hope this turned out okay. This is quickly becoming an otp. :)

Her coverlets are a brilliant Lannister red, with the emblem of the roaring lion etched in silver silk, square in the middle, saved for her after the Sack of Casterly Rock. She considers turning the heavy material over, letting the crimson give way to the duller and more appropriate grey of the underside, but leaves it as is, after a moment of consideration. Myrcella checks her reflection in the looking glass, smoothes her hair and pinches her cheeks, and slips into bed. Then, she spends a few minutes rereading her mother’s latest letter before tucking it carefully into a drawer, and turning to face the darkening sky outside. 

The days are ever stretching longer, winter yielding, as it always does, to spring, even up here in the chilly north. Nonetheless, the breeze that steals through the open window cuts through Myrcella like Valyrian steel, especially after her blood has thinned in the seasons of sweltering heat in the Dornish sands. Her only apparel is a sheer, pale pink nightgown, luminous in the yellow light of the fireplace, and she can feel the goose bumps sprouting on her skin like the new blades of grass now sprout beneath the snow. Myrcella, however, only runs a hand over the wrinkles on the coverlet, and pushes her shoulders back. A lioness is not easily cowed.

She _can_ , apparently, be startled; even though she’s expecting it, Myrcella still gives a little start when a lightly bronzed hand clasps the edge of her windowsill, and a dark shadows vaults into the room, as quick as the wind that blows through it. The little scream that fights forth past her lips is not fabricated, but it is the last. The shadow shuts the window and is at her side faster than she would have thought possible, skilled though she knows her wolf to be. Ice prickles at her neck, cold and thick: a blade. A dull one, wrought in stone rather than steel, but a blade nonetheless. Myrcella gives a very authentic shiver.

“Not another peep out o’ you, y’hear?” The voice is deeper than she’s used to, more cold, as if tempered and sharpened by winter itself. “Lest you want t’ be losin’ that pretty tongue o’ yours.”

Oh, she’s even got the parlance down, perfectly well. Not that Myrcella would know, but it fits seamlessly with what she’d imagined of the wildling brogue. Rough and throaty and drawling. Myrcella knows that she has wildling friends, some of those who’d stayed on the Wall with her bastard brother, and it both thrills and pleases her to think of Arya studying and trying to duplicate their timbre, with tonight in mind. Her clothes, too, are different; hooded, made of rough-spun wool and the furs of animals that Myrcella doesn’t dare to guess.

Swallowing, she lifts her chin to show her defiance, despite the fact that the intruder is so close, a knee on her bed and a knife at her throat. But she keeps her silence, as ordered. Arya’s eyes glint like silver.

“Been a long time since I snuck past them crows t’ come south. Things’ve changed.” The hand that doesn’t grasp the blade reaches up to finger a lock of Myrcella’s hair, shining golden bright and luminous from her ministrations. “Came down expectin’ wolves, and here I got me a lion.” Fingers thick with calluses brush at her scar, from the ghastly hole where her ear used to be, to the corner of her lips. Myrcella sees the glint of perfect teeth past the shadow of the hood; she has always liked Myrcella’s scar. “A lion with a little fight in her.”

A single finger remains there, pressing against the plushness of her lips. Myrcella knows that this makes for terrible princess-like behaviour, having been one herself, a thousand years ago, but she nips at the finger anyway, sharp enough to draw blood, and prove her intruder right. A hiss meets her in answer, but it’s a sound of amusement, rather than pain. 

“More’n a little, then,” her captor amends. She’s pleased; it’s rife in her voice before she raises the bloodied finger to her mouth to suck it in. The dull tip of the knife travels cold and slow up Myrcella’s throat, to further bare her neck and push her chin forward. “I’m goin’ t’ have fun with you, I think.”

In the same breath, she shakes her head back, pushing off the hood. The light flickers bright and sharp on the long face that she loves: the solemn nose, the steely eyes, the brown hair knotted at her nape. Myrcella gasps a little — it is almost a shock, to associate this face with that voice — and Arya takes it for aborted speech.

“Go on,” she urges, voice still thick and low and dangerous. “Say it, I want t’ hear. _Quietly_ , now, princess.”

Myrcella’s mind whirls; she hadn’t actually thought very much of what she would say, given the chance to speak. She’d actually assumed they’d have gotten to the ravishing bit by now, but Arya’s imagination is gorgeously expressive as always.

“My sire the king will have your head for this,” seems like an appropriate thing to say; she delivers it with all the boldness that she can muster. But when a rich chuckle comes back as answer, it is fruitlessly that Myrcella tries to suppress the shiver that it elicits.

“Your sire the king’ll do well t’ keep on snorin’ in those snug chambers o’ his, if he knows what’s good for him. My fellows won’t bother him none; no, they’re too quiet for that.” She uses the blade to trace a path up her face; Myrcella jumps a bit as it passes over the dense scar tissue. Her wildling warrior smiles. “They just want t’ relieve him o’ a bit o’ his coin and a lot o’ his larder. Kill a few o’ his guards too, if it comes t’ that, but that’s their duty, ain’t it? T’ die for their king. Just like it’s my fellows’ duty t’ kill ‘em.”

How in all seven heavens is she thinking of all of this? All while the stone blade tickles her face with its cold kiss... Myrcella knows she’ll never be in any real danger, not when the hand that wields the knife is this one. The wild fluttering of her heart has to do with something entirely different.

“And what is _your_ duty?” she tries, breath coming out like a sigh. And oh, that smile is a charming one, for all the snarl that comes with it; for a moment, Myrcella forgets that this is a game, and almost smiles back, before she catches herself.

“Me? Up beyond your Wall, my only duty is to m’self; I am a free woman.” It is enunciated with all the appropriate fierceness and pride, and it has that distinct twang of truth. If there is anyone in Myrcella’s knowledge who lives within these seven kingdoms and can still boast of being wild and free, it is Arya. “But tonight… I been charged t’ find the true treasure o’ Winterfell. An’ I think I’ve already done me a good job on that score.”

Myrcella’s breath catches in the cave of her throat.

“Treasure?” she whispers, stalling for time while she tries to master her heartbeat.

“Oh, yes.” The finger that was formerly in Arya’s mouth now touches her on the nose, still slightly damp, before moving back to the waterfall of her blonde tresses. “You’re a treasure if I ever did see one. Hair as gold as your dragon coins.” The digit moves into her line of vision, blurrily close, and Myrcella blinks them shut without thinking. She can feel the gentle press on her eyelids, one after the other. “Eyes green like some kind o’ fancy gem, or the new blades o’ grass after the long winter, aye, that’s it.” Myrcella opens her eyes as the finger moves, still hardly daring to breathe as it makes a slow trek down her face. The stone knife is gone, and its cold touch replaced by licks of fire. 

Arya touches her lips again, and this time, it does not even occur to her to bite. She is far too occupied watching the thin smile, and wondering where her hand will go next.

“Lips… lips like these ought t’ be outlawed; they could drive a man to forsake all gods, old and new and red.” She pushes firmly with her finger before capturing Myrcella’s chin. “Issat where you got that mouth from? Did you pray t’ your Red God for lips like sin?”

“I keep the Se– the sacred old gods,” she corrects herself in time, remembering that she is supposed to be of the north. Her pulse is fluttering madly, like a butterfly in captivity. Myrcella whips her head away, to steal a few quick breaths, but soon finds herself being turned back, held by the chin. Those solemn eyes lick up and down her frame like a steel kiss, insolent and sharp.

“Aye… this is the bounty o’ Winterfell. You’d fetch me more’n a few coppers, y’would.” Arya’s lips are quirking up again. “All this fine, golden skin, that tiny little waist, them lush teats…”

Unexpectedly, her hand drops to give one of them a firm squeeze. Myrcella gasps, and near bucks forward into the warm touch. To keep herself from moaning and completely ruining the whole thing, she does the first thing that comes to her mind: cracks her hand lightning quick across a thin cheek.

As soon as she’s done it, she can’t believe she has. An apology tickles at her throat, but she swallows it down in time, watching with quickening breath as Arya touches her red cheek, and grins even wider than before, white and hard as ice. Coupled with her garb and the knife at her side and all the dangerous intent that she emanates, it really does make her look like a wildling girl; enthralling and savage.

“You are no lady,” Myrcella scrambles to say, chest heaving. Her fingers and palm tingle where they’d met the sting of flesh.

“I know.” The grin spreads even more. “And you, my princess, ain’t no lioness. Clear as day t’ me now.” Myrcella is dimly cognisant of the knife slipping back into a holster, of the hand that wielded it stroking across her unmarred cheek. She snaps her teeth at it, but it only makes Arya laugh some more. “You’re her younger, fiercer cousin, aye. _Shadowcat_ , I name you, princess. Beautiful and blonde and mine. D’you know what we say about your kind in the lands beyond the Wall, Shadowcat?”

Closer she moves, taking a cursory moment to lift her knee and push back the coverlet. The cold rushes in, sinking through Myrcella’s thin gown to mate with her flesh. Already dizzied by the sobriquet and how awfully good it sounds echoing off of Arya’s tongue, it’s all she can do to shake her head.

A rough hand rests almost casually on her thigh, and squeezes gently.

“We say that a man t’ take the skin of a shadowcat is a man t’ be respected and feared.” With her other hand, she unfastens the strings at her neck, and lets the hooded cloak fall to the floor. The rough-spun breeches and shirt beneath it cannot provide much warmth, but the cold lives in her already, bone deep. “What say you, Shadowcat? Shall I have your pelt? Or shall I just have _you_?”

“‘Have me’?” Myrcella’s voice squeaks, but she thinks that it’s quite fitting, all things considered.

“That’s what I said. _Mine_. I don’t think I’ll be tradin’ you off after all.”

Arya’s hand slips underneath the sheer material of her gown to touch her thigh. If Myrcella was ever cold, she forgets the sensation now. There is only heat, the simmering fire of her wolf’s voice.

“What will you do with me?” she manages to ask. For the least, she thinks she does; her voice is as fleeting as the last flap of a dying raven, and sounds just as weak. Right now, she feels neither the lioness nor the shadowcat. She is a kitten, and Arya looks fit to feast.

“Whatever I want,” she growls, and her hand scrambles swiftly up Myrcella’s thighs, and presses against the wetness waiting there for her.

“Oh!” Myrcella cries out immediately, and her hands, fisting the sheets like anchors, fly up to hook themselves around Arya’s neck. This is where the princess would fight, show the wildling girl that a northwoman is not so easily taken, but instead, her legs fall open, and she undulates into the sweet firmness of those fingers. The game begins to dissolve around them, piece by piece. “Oh, Arya!”

“You’re already so wet…” And as if in response to her name, that is Arya’s voice, reappearing out of the rough burr with her characteristic lilt. Those are her eyes, softening in wonder and in hunger; that her smile, impish and daring. Her fingers continue their wicked ways, spreading moisture all over Myrcella’s lips and her little nub, dampening her curls further, until one ventures to dip inside. Arya fixes a hold on Myrcella’s chin so that she can watch her, every agonising step of the way.

“Oh, gods,” she moans, her hands falling away to her sides, her shoulders shaking. The room has gone from cold to chilly to warm to unbearable; Myrcella thinks she might die if she remains clothed for another minute, scanty as her gown is. She shakes her shoulders again.

“Get this off me,” she commands. Obeisance comes slowly, and with a sly laugh; with a few slashing tugs of Arya’s free hand, strips and rips of silk are hanging down around Myrcella’s waist. Her breasts jump free, plump and pink and pebbled hard, and Arya doesn’t hesitate to suck a nipple into her mouth almost immediately. Myrcella cries out again. Her tongue feels wondrously good, rubbing roughly against the hard peak before sucking a quick, tender caress with her lips. The other breast receives the same treatment: a warm hand and a warmer mouth, cradling it and licking it.

Myrcella can’t stop moaning. Arya pushes her nightgown up to her waist so that her sex is exposed to the air as Arya’s fingers plunder and take. There are two inside of her now; two too few for Myrcella’s taste, but enough for tonight. Her hips pump up and down, parrying Arya’s thrusts. Into the curves and valleys of her chest that sweet mouth travels, planting words like dewdrops that Myrcella absorbs, like a thirsty sandy beach. A pink flush claims her flesh as Arya whispers to her, telling her how sweet her cunt looks, how good she smells, good enough to eat. Myrcella shudders with her blush, legs clamping down on the hand between them.

“Oh gods… kiss me Arya, kiss me,” she demands, scraping at the wool covered shoulders.

“Wildling girls don’t kiss their captives, Shadowcat,” she is informed with a slight roll of those grey eyes, “especially not when they’re ordered to.” Nevertheless, Arya walks a wet path up Myrcella’s tense ribs and sensitive nipples, gives her countless red spots on her chest and throat, before she finds Myrcella’s lips and slants over them. The kiss is hungry and wild, Myrcella pulling her down so that the coarse material of Arya’s shirt can graze and scrape her breasts. Arya’s mouth is as savage as she is, biting where another would lick, thrusting where another would stroke.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Myrcella repeats in an endless litany, her head quite light with lust. Arya inserts another finger, snug and tight with the others, and she pulls back to watch Myrcella with her lips between her teeth as she plunges her fingers in and up, curving them and hitting a place that makes Myrcella gasp and bite off a short scream. Her hands grip the bedding, and she feels her hips move without her leave, rotating and grinding with the motion of Arya’s fingers, making her feel so full and lovely. The sweet thunder in her lower belly grows and grows.

“Kiss me again,” she begs in a whimper, for practical reasons this time; she is going to peak, soon, and wake half the castle with it if it is as intense as she imagines. Arya grins, and she obeys… in a manner. Myrcella feels the rough drag of her clothing as Arya slithers down her body, and puts tongue and lips to work on the little button above her thrusting fingers, sucking it hard until Myrcella thrashes and everything goes blissfully white. Myrcella is left to stifle her shouts with her own hands as she comes, trembling with sensation and drowning in her pleasure.

It seems to go on forever; Arya’s licks become slower and lighter as Myrcella becomes more and more sensitive to touch, and she withdraws her fingers carefully. Only when Myrcella gives a long sigh, stretching her arms and pointing her toes, does she ease away completely, sucking on her fingers one by one in a way that makes Myrcella tingle, and she has to press her hands to herself for a last shiver.

“You are very wicked,” she announces, trying to sound cross instead of breathless as she wiggles out of the ruined nightgown, and Arya sits up with feet on the ground to toe off her boots. “There are guards at the end of the hall; what if they had heard me?”

Arya throws her a haughty grin.

“Knowing that the queen’s ward was certainly in here alone… they might’ve thought that you were celebrating the coming of spring all by your lonesome.”

Myrcella smacks her on the thigh for that, feeling warmth spreading across her bare chest. The cold will come creeping back soon enough, but now that her wolf is here, she doesn’t think she’ll have need of another sleeping gown.

“I’m sorry for striking you,” she adds, remembering as Arya stands to shed her clothes, and the lamplight turns the red of her cheek even darker. “On your face, at least. I shouldn’t have. And I bit you, too… Come, let me see.”

Arya shakes her head. Her clothes, she drops on the floor, as usual. Her body is all lean lines and corded muscle, scars and bruises and burns dotting it like a map. As she climbs onto the bed, over Myrcella, she drops a swift kiss onto a nipple.

“You didn’t hurt me, Myrcella,” she explains, almost patiently, settling back against the pillows. The notion seems to amuse her. “It was one of the better parts, actually. Though I can’t say the same for _‘Kiss me, please’_.” There’s a playfully mocking lilt to her voice, and Myrcella pokes her in the ribs.

“Oh, hush, we were practically finished playing by then, it hardly counts,” she insists, wagging a finger. “What of you? I may not know much about the north, but I don’t think I err in assuming that a wilding would know little to naught of R’hllor, or any gods other than their own.”

“You’re right… you _don’t_ know much of the north,” Arya teases. “Three years is time little enough.”

“It’s time enough for _some_ things,” she protests, grabbing Arya’s arm so that she can drape it over her own shoulder and huddle closer, rubbing a shoulder pointedly against a small breast. “Like getting closer. And I survived winter, did I not? A true northern one.”

For a moment, the slate-grey eyes seize upon her, dark and brooding with the shadows of lost years. The woman that Arya has become resembles what little she can remember of the late Hand, her father. Myrcella almost thinks she is about to recite the Stark motto for her; winter had come for all of them, and though the Dragon Queen brought fire and blood and order, and the Others melted back north, vanquished, and peace reigned above and below the Neck once more, sooner or later, it would come again. Those were their words.

But instead, Arya rakes her fingers through Myrcella’s curls, tugging lightly.

“You did,” she allows, and uses the hand in her hair to pull Myrcella’s head back slightly, to have her look up at her. “There’s always something to be said for surviving.”

Myrcella kisses her nose; Arya wrinkles it.

“Anyway, you make a good little princess. And a passable northern one, I suppose.”

“And you make a _passably_ frightening wildling raider,” Myrcella sniffs, determined not to shower her with all the impressed compliments that she had formulated about her authenticity. “Though overly mouthy.”

Cool as a winter breeze and just as sudden, Arya grabs her by the waist and half squeezes, half tickles her, while Myrcella tries to suppress her bubbling laughter, scratching and clawing at her lover’s arms.

“All the talking was stupid,” Arya admits almost casually while her fingers crawl along Myrcella’s skin, and she climbs to sit astride her hips. She doesn’t even seem to feel Myrcella’s retaliation, though she does react, grinning at the little scrapes. “Any real raider would have had you trussed up, over her shoulder and out the window before you had a chance to whisper a prayer. But I had to make it last somehow, and you loved it, don’t lie. Don’t. Lie.” Her last two words are punctuated with particularly vicious forays beneath Myrcella’s arms, and the giggles turn into shrieks.

“Mercy!” she cries amidst her laughter, and tries on her very best pout. Still, Arya revels in her victory for a minute longer before the tickles turn into caresses, and she leans down for a hard, but sweet kiss, cupping the scarred side of her face.

“Wicked,” Myrcella says again with gusto when they pull apart. “Wicked and foul. All the smallfolk from Greywater to Karhold would write songs about you, if only they knew how truly nefarious their queen’s little sister could be.”

“I am not the queen’s little sister,” Arya reminds her. “I am a wildling warrior.”

Myrcella shakes her head at Arya’s wild, mischievous look, beaming. It’s almost as if their roles _haven’t_ been reversed, after all these years. Arya still scowls at anyone who dares style her as Princess, Queen in the North though her sister may be, and Myrcella herself has had to remind a servant or two that they need only call her ‘lady’. All their wounds aside, they still even look the same, according to Sansa; Myrcella ever the lady, Arya ever the tramp.

She throws a glance to the attire on the floor.

“Where did you get it?”

“The garb? Val lent most of it to me… no, I didn’t tell her why,” she adds before the question can be asked. “I had Gendry make me the knife.”

“It is a good knife,” Myrcella praises, thinking of the stone touch on her face.

“No it’s not, it’s not even sharp.” Arya looks fond as she rolls her eyes. “I asked him to be sure of that. Do you want to keep it?”

“Actually, I think I would.” Lifting her chin, she rests her hands lightly on the hips above her own. There is a small crescent scar there, on the right side, the knotted tissue thick and dark. She hasn’t heard the tale of this one yet; Arya is slow and stubborn to shed her skin, but shed it she does, patch by patch, sloughing off stories like water on cold nights under the covers. Myrcella smiles as she traces the old wound. The unheard tale seems to echo back to her from the future days of spring. “The days of wildling raids may be over, but I can still boast of having a souvenir from one.”

Gods’ truth, when asking Arya for this, her face had run through a selection of reds that any dyer would envy. But ask she did, nevertheless. Her curiosity was a growing thing, fed by Arya’s stories; those from her old nurse, her father, her brothers, and some she’d experienced herself at the end of her long, thin sword. And when the reply had come back in the sharp, teasing affirmative, as she’d somehow known it would, she’d not been able to stop thinking about it for weeks.

“And I,” Arya is saying, snatching her hand to nip at the tips, “will boast of having captured a shadowcat pelt of my own.”

There it is, that name again. Myrcella is flushed warm, and amused. “Is this going to become a fixture, then? The new moniker?”

“Shadowcat? Yes, I think it’s going to stay. It suits you, with all your claws.” She nips at Myrcella’s fingers again, and smiles when they wriggle and catch on her lips.

“Yes, it was particularly inspired of you. But shadowcats have stripes, where I have none,” Myrcella points out.

“You have one.” Arya’s fingertip runs along the jagged surface of the scar that she loves. All the affection echoingly absent in her words is found in the blunt edge of her nail. From ruined ear to sloping mouth she traces, and when she reaches her destination, Myrcella kisses the digit, and then bites it.

“Are you sure you’d like a shadowcat, and not a princess?” From Arya’s hips, her hands glide up to bracket the firm, slender waist. “One is considerably easier to tame than the other.”

Those grey eyes flash serious and sly all at once.

“Who said anything about taming? Don’t you know anything, Myrcella Baratheon? I like my little princess, but I like the wild too.”

She gives a very disarming smile, and it is as appropriate a time to pounce as any. Myrcella pushes her back, and Arya goes, smirking, landing with a little bounce near the foot of the bed. Crawling up her body, Myrcella leaves dainty little kisses as she goes; on the veins in her thighs, her jutting hipbones, her pert breasts, every small scar waiting to become a story.

“Well, you’re very lucky, then.” Her smile is sweet. “You can have both.”


End file.
